Lost Luggage (22 page)

Unable to shake off her nausea, the girl said nothing. Her only response was to try to light a cigarette. After she'd struck three matches, Gabriel came to her aid, cupping his hands against the wind and then, making the most of it, lighting up himself. They smoked in silence. The tips of their cigarettes glowed in the sea air. Gulls circled the boat in erratic swoops.

“Don't think about it,” Gabriel said after a while.

Again the girl said nothing. She merely forced a half smile. The whole trip, he and Bundó had had to drag the words out of her. Gabriel felt uncomfortable in the role of escort, or father almost. He hated this vassalage that Senyor Casellas was imposing on him, for the third time now. The girl was called Anna Miralpeix and she, too, had to leave something in London: The La Ibérica truckers were taking her to have a secret abortion. She was seventeen years old and six weeks gone. Small, slender, olive-skinned and of angular features, she affected a tomboy look. Her blond hair was cut in a gamine style and she was dressed as if summer wasn't over (white trousers, blue-and-white horizontal-striped T-shirt, yellow Windbreaker). At first glance, she seemed as fragile as fine porcelain and free of any emotional excess. However, this pose was fashionable among the Costa Brava smart set in the summer of '66 when the offspring of well-to-do families got together at private garden parties or beach bars and night clubs and amused themselves by exhibiting a feigned disregard for life, a contrived emptiness that, moreover, distracted them from the real emptiness that haunted their futures. Sometimes when they were still green, as in the case of Anna Miralpeix, the game sucked them in completely, seducing them with its novel sensations. The rite of passage always included the verses of some trusted poet (a friend of the family and at once an ally), the odd French song, grilled sardines, laughter, intellectual conversations (it was always the same
ones, but she didn't give a damn), a longing to drive around in a convertible, reckless love affairs, and the glazed, party's-over languor and vague Marxist pronouncements that marked the climax of every booze-up. Alcohol, of course, protected them from the outside world, like amniotic fluid replenished each evening.

With the end of summer, the fun and games adjourned to Barcelona. A few unlucky ones had to pay the price in September. Thus it was that, just a week before, sin had visited the Miralpeix house in the Sant Gervasi neighborhood. Anna's first classes of her university-entrance course had been punctuated by several attacks of nerves, giddiness, and vomiting. A Galician maid who could read the future in the sheets of an unmade bed apprised the lady of the house. That very same day, the mother took her daughter to the family doctor to see if she was expecting. “She's expecting, yes she's expecting, your little girl's expecting,” the doctor confirmed. On their way home in a taxi the mother asked Anna to tell her the name of the baby's father, the wholly guilty party. Would they have to suffer? Juan Marsé's novel
Últimas tardes con Teresa
had recently been published, and its account of the love affair between a social-climbing, working-class Spanish immigrant boy and a blond, upper-class Catalan girl had unleashed a wave of hysteria in the swanky part of town up on the hill. No, Anna conveyed with a shake of head. She wasn't going to give the name. At the very thought of him her mouth filled with the bitter-orange taste of Licor 43. The mother was satisfied with her revulsion. Then the appropriate cogs began to turn in order to sort out the awkward situation. The doctor had written a letter in English (for the third time that autumn). Senyora Miralpeix had calmed her husband. “Our little girl is our little girl.” Senyor Miralpeix knew somebody in the Equestrian Circle who, faced with the same plight, had entrusted the matter to a certain Casellas. Phone call. No, no phone call, personal visit. Dark glasses. References. Casellas bowing and scraping. Luck would have it that there was a move to England scheduled for the following week. Was the timing right, or should it be brought forward? Rebeca, the La Ibérica secretary, immediately made a few phone calls to a contact in a London hospital.

Appointment made.

Throughout this entire process, nobody had given as much as five minutes to ask what Anna thought. Neither had she, in fact. The diligence with which everyone rallied around to solve the problem had left her with no alternative. If she'd been four years older she might have protested but, at seventeen, and coming from an upper-crust family, what could you expect? Swaddled in cotton wool, Anna was heading for London without too many worries. Her uneasiness arose from something else, an understanding, perhaps that the scar—physical and mental—of an abortion would give her new status in her circle of friends and, like someone sitting for an end-of-year exam, she was afraid of not being up to it.

What with all this agitation, the incredibly tedious journey by truck (fifteen hours) and the ferry crossing were now assuming epic proportions that would help her to shore up the future. Furthermore, she would eventually learn to take refuge in the adventure, at the heart of which, of course, was the company of Bundó and Gabriel (Petroli had remained in Barcelona so she could travel in the truck). “Saved by the working class!” she thought. Those men wore pullovers ripped by hard work, smoked pungent, dark-tobacco Ducados, drank beer from the bottle! It could be said that she appreciated them and felt an anthropological attraction toward both of them. The feeling was mutual. In a food break they'd seen how tired and pale she was, and Bundó opened the trailer, made a space for one of the mattresses they were carrying and let her have an hour's sleep. These kind gestures, such a small matter for the two drivers, lent a human touch to the lonely journey of Anna Miralpeix.

“Do you do this very often, Manuel, I mean transporting pregnant girls?” she asked, tossing her cigarette butt into the sea. There was no way she was going to learn their names. Gabriel didn't want to correct her. It was the first time she'd initiated a conversation, and, unlike the other girls, she wasn't asking how long before they arrived.

“You're the third,” he replied. “You're also the youngest. Don't imagine that we're crazy about this. In theory we're breaking Spanish
law, we're delinquents, but our boss is one of those people who do favors and your parents . . .”

“I don't give a fuck about my parents,” she cut him off. “I'm doing it for me and that's that. I don't want to have a kid, ever. Children give me the creeps.”

Her words were emphatic but devoid of any anger. They weren't far from a plea.

“Don't say that,” Gabriel told her. “You're very young and who knows where life will take you. I myself . . .”

“Do you have kids?”

“Not that I know of,” Gabriel lied.

“Do you want to have kids?”

“Yes, yes, sure, of course.” He didn't have to give it much thought. “One day. If I stop carting furniture all over the place and find a woman who'll put up with me.”

“How old are you now?”

“Just turned twenty-six. Why the interrogation?”

Anna thought he looked older. A new, more violent flurry of wind raced across the deck, catching them unawares. The ferry started rolling in the surging sea. The few people still remaining outside hastened inside. Gabriel found it a good excuse to put an end to the conversation and invited Anna to go down to the cafeteria. She waited a few seconds by herself (as fine rain began sprinkling her face) and then followed him. When they'd reached the foot of the narrow stairway, they saw Bundó running up to them along the passageway. He was very agitated.

“Hi, gorgeous, how are you feeling? You're okay, aren't you?” he asked Anna. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Gabriel. “Guess who's in the bows . . . or is it the stern? I always get it mixed up . . . Never mind. Guess who's at the other end of the ferry.” A suspenseful pause. “The French fellow, the one with the horse. With that groom of his.”

From that moment on, it was as if Bundó's words, so seemingly straightforward, had cast some sort of spell on the ferry and its occupants. Gabriel's face changed. Anna noted that his expression grew even sharper, making him look like the fox in storybooks.
The muscles and veins in his neck tensed. His lips went dry and he ran his tongue over them to moisten them. The transformation lasted just a few seconds and ended in a strange gesture: Gabriel quickly patted his chest and arms as if looking for his wallet and immediately pulled down his shirtsleeves to check that the cuffs were well buttoned. Then he was his usual calm self again. Bundó rubbed his hands together to fend off the cold.

“Do they want to play?” Gabriel asked.

“They sure do,” his friend replied. “They haven't forgotten last time.”

“Play what?” Anna interrupted.

“Cards. We play cards. Poker,” Bundó explained.

Gabriel disappeared down one of the long upholstered passageways, heading for the cafeteria at the other end. While they followed him, staggering with the rocking of the boat, Bundó explained who the Frenchman was in a burst of nervous chatter.

The Frenchman, a Parisian aged about fifty, was aptly named Monsieur Champion. Churlish and arrogant, a bastard through and through, he was loaded and under the impression that the whole of humanity worked for him. He was a horse breeder with a stud farm in Brittany. The pearl of his stables was a thoroughbred that he took to race on different tracks in the south of England. A glance was sufficient to confirm that this was a glorious horse. He was called Sans Merci. Monsieur Champion always traveled with Ibrahim, a reserved, monosyllabic Algerian youth. According to Bundó, it was a weird, dodgy kind of relationship, if you get what I mean. Sometimes the Frenchman treated Ibrahim as if he were his slave and threatened to strike him. Other times he gazed at him enraptured. The lad seemed very amiable and never complained. His job was to look after the horse, groom him, feed him, and ensure that, once he was in the horsebox for the crossing, he stayed calm and docile. The two men crossed the Channel a few days before each race and took the horse to the racecourse in question, where an English jockey trained him and got him into shape for the Saturday event. He was a winner, great for the betting business. The four men had met for the first time on La
Ibérica's previous ferry trip to London. That was the day when Bundó and Gabriel had been playing cards at a corner table in the cafeteria, seeking relief from the throng. The Frenchman had approached them and challenged them to a game against himself and Ibrahim. For money, French francs. That trip, Gabriel and Bundó had played for more than an hour with Monsieur Champion and the groom. Since it was a short crossing, they didn't have time to clean them out (clean him out, the arrogant dickhead who doled out money to the lad so he could play), but the winnings had been considerable. Now Monsieur Champion wanted revenge. It was his right, he said.

If Petroli had been traveling on the ferry that October day, Gabriel wouldn't have fallen so easily into temptation. The older man was well aware of his weaknesses, remembered some of his earlier gambling episodes, and knew how to rein him in when necessary. Bundó, in contrast, went along with Gabriel because their cardsharp partnership amused and pleased him. Soon it would be his and Carolina-Muriel's first anniversary, and he was dying to give her a classy present. Thus, every move they did, he ferreted around in the boxes in a way that bordered on pathological, and any chance to make a bit of money, by cheating or otherwise, was welcome.

Guided by this gleaner's spirit, Bundó made his entrance into the cafeteria, beaming from ear to ear, with Anna Miralpeix at his side. Gabriel, already seated at the table with Monsieur Champion and the groom, was shuffling the cards.

“Hullo. And this lovely young lady, where has she sprung from?” Monsieur Champion greeted them. It was clear he'd learned some Spanish hobnobbing with people from the Basque coast of France. “Aha, I see, she's your . . . how shall I put it, your lucky charm.”

“I'm nobody's lucky charm,” Anna replied in the man's language. She'd been a student at the Lycée Français, and her accent impressed Monsieur Champion. He looked her up and down disdainfully and decided that he didn't like the brat.

“
Alors tais-toi
,
ma petite
,” he shot back, instantly enraged. “You have no place here. If you want to stay, keep quiet. Sit down and learn a thing or two.”

Anna grew quiet but stayed where she was, holding her ground. She wasn't going to be bossed around by anyone. She'd keep standing there, right by his side, just to piss him off.

“Shall we start? We've agreed that I deal first,” Gabriel said, as if nothing had happened. He then quietly informed Bundó of a further condition. “We're going to play with pesetas. The Captain mustn't know that the stakes are higher. He'd shut down the show. Remember, every peseta's worth a franc. It's like playing with chips. We'll work it out in francs at the end of the game. Minimum bet's one peseta; maximum a hundred.”

“Jesus!”

“They're good and worried today, Ibrahim. You can see they don't trust the luck that comes with pregnant girls.”

Gabriel shot him a reproving look, and the Frenchman winked in response. Still standing at his side and biting her tongue, Anna remained unruffled. Gabriel dealt out the cards. The ferry lurched again, and Anna nearly fell but saved herself just in time by grabbing Monsieur Champion's shoulder. The Frenchman gloated and the groom watched her out of the corner of his eye. Bundó picked up the first cards. After looking at his hand, he took a swig of beer and addressed Anna.

“If I was you, I'd go and sit down at some table and have a bite of breakfast. It's self-service, so you've got to get it yourself and pay at the till. If you want my advice, go for a nice hot coffee and one of those teacakes. The sandwiches are disgusting.”